Romans & histoires Bikers Hidden Heiress

She asked in a shaky voice again as if she hadn't heard the words properly the first time, but she had and the news of the stolen heirloom seemed to have rattled the perfected composure within her. "Yeah but don't worry, they don't know where the treasure is hidden or how to find it." Keira suddenly grabbed her head as if she were feeling dizzy. "She looks stressed, she needs to rest for a while." I told Rocco while supporting her, I could feel how her body had weakened and if I moved away she would collapse to the floor. The heirloom seemed important to Vincent but not as important as it seemed to Keira judging by how she reacted. She seemed to hate the underworld yet the heirloom seems to

“He's really cute, you know. Girls have tried talking to him but he just ignores them all." I frowned, cocking a brow as I took a sip of my cocktail. "And… why are you telling me this?" Clara paused for a second and I could see a mischievous look flash in her eyes. “I dare you," she whispered, a sly smile forming on her face. “You dare me?" I asked and she nodded. “You dare me… to do what?" “Go talk to him, girl," she answered. “Or just get him to buy our drinks and I’ll give you a thousand dollars.”

I’d given her none. She didn’t want me. No one ever did. They wanted the legend. The scarred son of Don Moretti. The killer who never missed. Not the man beneath it. Not that there was much man left to see. I traced the rim of my glass with a finger, thinking of the whispers I’d heard lately—rumors drifting through the underworld like smoke. A name. A woman. A blind heir hidden in the Vellaro fortress. A daughter of Celeste Vellaro.

“Jesus, Belle. You okay? I saw them outside.” Annabelle’s pulse pounded in her ears. “They knew my name, Sofia. My real name.” Sofia came around the counter fast, grabbing her shoulders. “Hey, breathe. What the hell is going on?” Annabelle reached into her bag and pulled out a folded newspaper someone had shoved into her hands earlier. Her picture was on the front page: THE HIDDEN HEIRESS OF BLACKTHORNE EMPIRE. The subheading read: From Barista to Billion-Dollar Bloodline.

"Anyway, he looks rich. If he's wealthy enough to afford a motorcycle like that, who cares what colour his jacket is?" "Exactly!" Hannah declared triumphantly. She turned back toward the mysterious biker, her eyes lingering on his pink leather jacket and the expensive motorcycle he had just parked. However, her smile gradually faded when she noticed something. He was walking toward them. Her eyes widened. "Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Oh, my God!" Nora rolled her eyes. "What is it now?" "He's coming this way!" Hannah whispered urgently, grabbing Jessie's arm. Nora glanced at the approaching biker before looking back at her friend.

*“I know you aren't. He did it for himself. You do it for us for the people you care about. The fire looks the same, Hannah. The fire still burns.” He kissed my forehead. Left. I stayed by the window for a while. I thought about the hawk in the orchard. I thought about the girl who was a victim and the woman who had become a fighter the woman who led Vane-Mac. I realized that the "Hidden Heiress" was like a cocoon. The Architect was the butterfly. Her wings were made of steel made of the strength of Vane-Mac.

Not because there was nothing to say but because everything we could say was too large to fit into words yet. I stared out the oval window, watching darkness swallow the wing, my reflection faintly visible in the glass. I barely recognized the woman looking back at me. Her hair was tangled, her eyes too sharp, too awake. There were faint scratches along her collarbone and wrist—souvenirs from a rooftop where the truth finally stopped hiding. I wasn’t the Hidden Heiress anymore. I wasn’t the substitute. I was the girl whose grandfather had signed her death warrant before she was old enough to understand what betrayal looked like.

Of course, I didn’t mention the garage full of luxury vehicles from my father, my cousin Sabastien, and my own car that I now drive. Also, my last statement is true in all ramifications. Heather is a broke mouse when it comes to wealth comparison between us. Heather’s expression shifts to one of even deeper contempt. She clearly thinks I am a low–level wolf pretending to be wealthy, when in reality, I am simply being modest about my actual status as the White heiress. Thanks to the Moon goddess, Philip didn’t come out with us. All of this would have made him laugh so hard. “Let’s order, everyone pick what you like,” I suggest, smoothly changing the subject.

“Call her, Ezra. I’d rather you handle it now than let it grow bigger by morning.” He dials. I stay close, close enough to hear the line ring twice before it connects, close enough to hear a woman’s voice answer, smooth and completely unbothered, like it’s the middle of the afternoon instead of past one in the morning. “I wondered how long you’d wait,” Cassandra says. “What do you want,” Ezra says, no greeting, nothing soft in his voice at all. “Honesty would be a start. Fourteen months, Ezra, and I find out about a secret son from a legal filing my assistant happened to overhear about. Not from you.”

I sat without moving for a long time. Then I slid my right hand under the manacle's lip, drew out the slate with two bandaged fingers, and read it once more in the dying light, letter by scratched letter. Two things. Two things no one else in the world knew, and no way to carry either an inch beyond these walls. A dead woman's warning, and a living woman's secret. The first said Briar must not stand alone. The second said the man who meant to stand her at the Stones had no idea she could not do the one thing he was counting on.